


Blind Men Tell No Tales

by 221blackandwhitestripes



Series: Nygmobblepot Week 2019 [7]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Day Seven: Free Day/Confession, Episode: s03e05 Anything for You, Feelings, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Metaphors, Nygmobblepot Week 2019, Pining, Poetic, Season/Series 03, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 09:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18313145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221blackandwhitestripes/pseuds/221blackandwhitestripes
Summary: Edward Nygma has worn prescription glasses ever since he can remember. He has always been slightly blind.That was, until Oswald.Nygmobblepot Day Seven: Free Day/Confession





	Blind Men Tell No Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Eh, I know this is late but oh well. Enjoy anyway.

Edward Nygma has worn prescription glasses ever since he can remember. His father had spewed venom complaining about the cost, but Ed has taken good care of them, shielding them from fists, shoes, locker room doors and the like. 

He has always been slightly bad at seeing.

When his job starts at the GCPD, he walks around blindly, assuming his friendly nature and soldered-on grin might give him a chance to be something else. No longer ‘Weird Ed’ or ‘Quiet Ed’ or ‘Nerd Ed’. He could be something so much better.

As he said: Blind.

He’s the same the first time he meets Oswald Cobblepot, lips curling up reflexively as he regards the man down past his nose, a riddle spilling from his lips to drench the man’s no doubt expensive coat. Oswald sighs and rolls his eyes and glares, but Ed is blind to it.

So very, very blind.

One night, his heart in his throat and a knife in his hand, he finds himself stabbing a man over and over, blade sliding into his chest repeatedly - like it _belonged_ there. A plug being pushed into a socket.

And, suddenly, he isn’t so blind anymore.

The next time he meets Oswald, he casts his act aside to save a dying man, focuses on pulling his strings until the dull brick in his eyes disappears and Oswald can see again too. There is something glorious in that, a privilege Ed feels when he catches Oswald’s eye and feels a connection. They can truly see the other for what they really are and neither of them runs away. It’s infinitely new and wonderfully different.

\- Until Oswald returns from his time away at Arkham so blind he can’t see the hand Ed waves in front of his face, can’t see the desperation Ed feels is etched on his skin, can’t see what he’s doing to him. Ed has to send him away, pushing the stem of his glasses further up his nose with one trembling finger.

When Oswald visits Ed during his own stay at Arkham, Ed can tell that he sees again, although not in the same way. Ed has been struggling to see lately, Arkham’s stench blurring the lines and colours and faces around him, blindness crawling up to him in a way that he fears is permanent. His fears are put to rest, however, when Oswald sits before him in the rickety, old visitor’s chair, freckles and curled eyelashes standing out in sharp focus, no crack in the lense in sight.

“It’s good to see you,” Ed says.

“It’s good to see you too,” Oswald replies.

Ed asks him about it, says he’s noticed the change, says he doesn’t look “so far-sighted anymore”.

Oswald tells a tale of murder, of blood dripping down his wrist, of muscles working as he sawed at bone and tendon, scarlet spattering his skin.

Ed tries not to drool and finds that when Oswald leaves, the bars and stripes of Arkham’s prison are in focus again.

Each time the sweat and screams threaten to fog Ed’s glasses and blur the world away, Oswald’s words return to him and he wipes the mist away.

“I’m sane?” he asks, pushing his glasses up his nose just to be sure.

“Of course.” Doctors and psychiatrists, men of supposed wisdom, but they seem blinder than most.

“I don’t understand,” Ed states, looking up at the night sky. The smog shakes its head at him in dismay even as the sound of a motor rears its head behind him.

“Hello, friend,” Oswald calls, grinning like a madman clutched under the cover of darkness and shame.

_He’s come for you._

Oswald lives in the manor now, and Ed supposes he lives there, too, if only temporarily. Oswald has laid waste to the ghosts himself, so they do not bother him and he walks the halls proudly, all seeing. It is an admirable trait, indeed.

Ed fills the empty silence in the dead of night with his own noise now, mind screeching the dark. 

Oswald tells him he can see the noise in his eyes, directs him to the ballroom and says “play this”. Ed places his hands on the keys and loses himself, sheet music falling from his brain until it’s only his fingers slipping over tear-slicked keys. The salt water has gathered on his lenses, pooling and dripping slowly. Oswald removes them, wipes them with his sleeve, replaces them. His hand on Ed’s shoulder, a steady reassurance.

“I understand,” he says, barely a whisper. “Don’t worry, I understand.”

Edward cries harder.

“Do you really think I could be Mayor?” Oswald asks, tying his tie and facing the mirror as if he doesn’t see himself in it.

“Of course,” Ed tells him, staring at his pale eyes. He sees it then, Oswald’s blindspot. “Oswald, my friend, the people of this city _love_ you.”

Oswald smirks and shakes his head. Blind. “Oh, Ed, that’s very kind of you to say.” 

Ed had never thought Oswald to be the type of man who did not believe in what he could not see, but it seems he was wrong.

Edward polishes his glasses, goes out to the street, collects money back from the people who don’t need it.

And Oswald shouts at him; “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you!” And Ed smiles because he sees what will happen next.

“I can't be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I'm worthless to one, but priceless to two.” Ed forms a heat with his hands, captures the wonder in Oswald’s eyes as they clear. He’ll keep this moment forever. “Love.”

Ed can scarcely breathe, tries to reply but can’t. So he nods and smiles, tries to hang onto this newfound ledge. Oswald turns back to his people, welcomes the hugs, the cheers, the compliments. He’s beautiful like this.

Ed straightens his tie and pushes his glasses firmly back into place. Tries to watch his friend celebrate, but feels as if he’s missing something.

“I would like to introduce you to my new Chief of Staff,” Oswald declares, snatches his hand and Ed gasps at the touch of it, adjusting his glasses once more. What isn’t he seeing?

He gets to go everywhere with Oswald now - following him, making sure things are going to plan, even taking orders from him. Ed would’ve thought he’d hate to be ordered around again, he’s left the GCPD and doesn’t desire to feel that choking kind of hold around his throat again.

But with Oswald, it’s different somehow - not so suffocating. He simply doesn’t mind.

_What isn’t he seeing?_

Ed finds himself leaning on Oswald again, pushing into his space even when it’s not required, whispering nonsense in his ear just to get the chance to. He can’t think why - can’t control it or stop it from happening. It’s a puzzle.

“We have to fix this, Ed,” Oswald might say, and Ed finds he can think of nothing else.

“What is happening to me?” He asks the mirror in the privacy of his bedroom.

The mirror shrugs: It doesn’t know.

When they stand outside city hall and guns fire in the open wind, Ed ducks and finds his heart tearing in the shadows. He discovers that he cannot bear the thought of losing Oswald, of watching him bleed out on these beautiful marble steps, life draining away.

Oswald screams and rallies, and all Ed can think is; _you’re alive, you’re alive, oh, thank God, you’re alive._

“They must pay for this, Ed,” Oswald yells, and Ed promises he’ll make it happen, but for now he can only concentrate on keeping his hands to himself and his heart in his chest.

His glasses slip down his nose again, and he forgets to push them up.

It’s these distractions that keep him from seeing what’s happening until it’s almost too late, eyes cast about a crime scene only to realize what that one-handed monstrosity has done.

Fire ignites him and he fears he might burn through the floor. Not before he’s dealt with Butch, though. Ed did make a promise, after all.

It starts with secret falsehoods hidden behind shadowy curtains and ice cold statements served on kitchen counters. When Ed’s plan is finally put in place, he can’t help but breathe in the anticipation of what Oswald might do when he finds out just how far Ed has gone for him. How much further he would go as well.

“The Mayor, _our_ Mayor, vowed that all the red hood would be destroyed. And now we have the real leader caught, red… handed.”

Ed stalks down off the stage and demasks his hairy ape. All eyes on them, but only one pair matters, only one pair needs to _see_.

“I’ll _kill_ you for this.” Yes, please, Oswald. Right here, right now. _Do it_. 

Ed can see it, the crimson spattering his skin.

Ed needs to clear his head. Needs to _breathe_.

His fingers tremble and he pulls his glasses off his face to wipe them clean.

“Showtime.”

Ed looks up and he’s missed too much.

“Oswald, _move_.”

Oh _dear._

Edward Nygma has worn prescription glasses ever since he can remember.

He has always been so _terrible_ at seeing.

_Oh dear._

Six colours dance on the ceiling and Ed watches them rise and fall. Something aches as the light dances, catching on the lenses of his glasses. Ed doesn’t have the energy to adjust them.

_How high **are** you?_

“I thought you were me, basically. You know how much I took,” Ed tells him.

The colour drips down the ceiling, splashing onto his tongue. It tastes thick like wax, dark like rum.

_Ed, you need to stop this._

Everything seems to blur away, the sky slipping through his fingers like sand. Ed could _taste_ it.

“Why? What for?” Ed asks, sand solidifying into glass.

_For him._

The glass shatters and Ed awakens, eyes alighting on the man above him.

“Oswald?” he tries to say, but his throat is a ring of fire and not a word escapes the burning.

“Oh, _Ed_ ,” Oswald breathes. “Thank God.”

Ed’s eyes unfocus then refocus. It becomes clear just how close Oswald has become, one hand caught up in Ed’s new hairstyle, the other clutched in his suit jacket, over his heart. His eyes are wet, droplets hanging off his mascara covered lashes like a string of pearls.

Ed smiles. Oswald laughs. The cameras in the background flash away.

Hysteria in colours 1 to 8.

Ed looks at him and thinks; _let’s not escape each other._

They take their ride home early, Oswald attentive and fluttering, hands shaking on Ed’s shoulder, Ed’s sleeve, Ed's waist.

Ed still can’t speak without his voice coming out as an agonized wail, so he communicates in nods and smiles and slow blinks, occasionally resting his head on Oswald’s shoulder, keeping him close. No need for misgivings now.

Ed could have died tonight.

“You could have died tonight,” Oswald states, quiet and detached. Shellshocked and bullet-ridden.

They could have died tonight.

Ed takes Oswald’s hand and places it on his wrist. He hopes his heartbeat is steady enough to be reassuring, but every time Oswald looks at him, it seems to beat faster and faster.

“I’m going to take you inside.”

Ed nods and coughs, quickly adjusting his glasses. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

Oswald takes him inside and upstairs. Wraps him in his arms and an old dressing gown. Takes him downstairs and sets him in front of the fire as he goes to make tea. Ed finds safety in the golden flames, feeling the warmth against his skin.

His fingers trace the bruising over his neck. It stings and he winces, but still presses harder to assure it was real. It’s there; it’s real; this isn’t a dream; he’s alive; he’s here, with Oswald.

Ed places his hands back onto his lap.

Oswald comes in, puts a cup and saucer in his hand, calls it his mother’s recipe for a sore throat. Ed takes several sips; smiles at the taste. Eventually, he puts it away because he has something to say.

“Oswald,” he begins, words choked and hoarse, but decipherable. “Thank you.”

Oswald shakes his head like a deer in spring, brow furrowed. “What for?”

Ed smiles. How blind. “You saved me.” He swallows the roughness, pushes his voice out. “Again.”

Oswald shakes his head. “It’s you who has saved me, my friend. I cannot express how-”

Ed places his hand on Oswald’s shoulder, stopping his soliloquy. “I hope you know, Oswald.”

He pauses, needing the words to be clear, he can’t bear for them to be misunderstood. Oswald watches him closely.

“I would do anything for you. You can always count on me.”

Oswald pulls him in and Ed’s heart is beating faster and faster and faster, thrumming like the bass string of a rock band. Oswald’s chin fits over his shoulder oh-so-perfectly, arms circling him, and Ed feels like he’s forgotten to breathe.

But this isn't what he wanted. No, it isn't. What is it that he wanted?

“E-Ed.” They’re on some shaky, treacherous ground, earthquakes on their horizon, and Ed can _feel_ it. “Thank you, I-”

Ed pulls away, heart hammering, feeling the bowling ball beneath him begin to slide. “I, uh, it’s no problem,” he whispers, smile wobbling on his face like a tightrope walker. “B-but, I’m tired now.”

Oswald smiles kindly. God, Ed doesn’t deserve him. “That’s okay. Stay by the fire while you finish your tea, then I’ll help you up the stairs.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Ed whispers, throat overworked by all the talking. “I-I can get there myself.”

“Nonsense, it’s the least I could do,” Oswald dismisses.

“Oh- okay.”

Oswald takes Ed’s emptied teacup back to the kitchen and Ed stares into the fireplace, flames licking his skin.

Why did he do that? Why did he pull away? Something could have happened, they could have…

Ed closes his eyes. He isn’t seeing things right, he knows. Gosh, if only he could _see_.

“Are you ready, my -uh- Ed.” Ed’s gaze snaps up to catch the rose-bloom red in Oswald’s cheeks, but it could just be the heat of the fire.

“Yes.”

Upstairs, Oswald is a gentle thunderstorm; simply moving as he wishes, but creating destruction within Ed in his wake.

He loiters by the door, a present beacon amidst the shadows.

“Oswald?” Ed whispers to him, looking through the darkness. _What is this? What’s happening? What are we?_

“Erm, oh, uh, goodnight!” And he’s gone.

Ed doesn't want him to be gone. Ed finds his feet at the end of his legs, feels them as they slap across the rug and over the hardwood floors. 

“Oswald,” he croaks, hanging off the door frame as a Christmas decoration.

“Yes?” Oswald turns and Ed feels like he might be choking again, hand lifting to his neck unconsciously. “Ed? Is it your throat?”

“Ah-” Ed coughs, limbs wobbling like soft boiled eggs, “Ye - I could use some company.”

“I-I'll Lay down with you if you'd like?” A swallow moves down Oswald’s throat and Ed follows it with his eyes, watches it dip below his collar and out of sight. “Just like old times.”

Ed nods, throat closed-up, unable to speak words other than record scratches. Oswald takes a step forward, face twisted into something troubled. 

“Do you… need help?”

Ed wants to tell him that it's his throat that's bruised and battered, not his legs, but he finds himself leaning on Oswald anyway, gasping softly at the arm firmly around his waist.

“Is this okay?” Oswald’s voice whispers by his ear and Edward can only nod. He lets himself be guided back to his room, accepts Oswald’s hand as it helps him to bed. Oswald goes to sit on top of the duvet, but Ed stops him silver-quick with a hand on his arm.

“Y-you can join me beneath the covers if you want,” he whispers, voice rasping smoke on the vowels. 

Ed can’t see Oswald’s face in the dark, but it’s okay - for once, he feels - to be blinded this way.

“That would be very nice, thank you.” Oswald’s skin brushes his and Ed burns hot like the fireplace still roaring downstairs. “Oh, Ed, you seem a bit cold.”

_I’m really not._

“May I - uh - offer you a hug?” Oswald asks, the sheets shifting a forest fire against Ed’s skin as Oswald turns to face him. “I-if you’d like. I’d hate for you to be cold.”

Ed closes his eyes and holds out his arms, tries to quell the racket in his mind screeching about the dark and the inability to see what’s next. He feels Oswald’s front press against his chest and sighs as he catches fire.

“It must hurt terribly,” Oswald whispers secret-like. Ed’s wince is quickly spirited-away as Oswald’s fingers brush over the bruises on his neck, keeps his eyes shut tight away from the pain.

“It was worth it,” he whispers back.

“You could have died, Ed,” Oswald’s voice grows cold, an earthquake in his hand against Ed’s throat.

“But you would have been safe, right?” Ed opens his eyes, searches for Oswald’s face in the darkness. He can barely make out the sharp line of Oswald’s nose.

_Do you see it now? Do you see my cards laid out, face-up before your eyes? Is this my winning or losing hand?_

“Oh, _Edward_ , I can’t express-” Ed’s skin shivers when Oswald pulls his hand away.

Ed sees the pieces that fall into place. He doesn’t need glasses to know.

_I am a sacrament of penance, though I may sometimes be false. I am given to priests and police alike and uttered by both lovers and sinners. What am I?_

“Riddle me this-” he begins, breathing deep.

“No, Ed,” Oswald cuts him off with a butterfly knife. “I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

Ed’s teeth cut into his bottom lip, indenting him with the unspoken. “Then, you tell me a riddle.”

He can hear Oswald’s sigh, feel him shift and twist around, skin scraping together quite accidentally - he’s sure.

“I can't be bought,” a hand against Ed’s beating heart, and he can scarcely breathe, “But I can be stolen with a glance. I'm worthless to one, but priceless to two.” They both shudder now, not enough light to quite see what’s in front of them. “What am I?”

“Do you love me, Oswald?” Ed can’t hold the question in any longer, feels it pour from his mouth like the overspilling of a flooded sink.

“I-I think I do,” Oswald confesses, a rush to Ed’s system. “I’ve only ever loved one other person before, Edward. But it was never like this.”

Ed swallows - steps off a cliff to see what might happen. “I have never loved like this before, either.”

Edward Nygma has worn prescription glasses ever since he can remember. He has always been slightly blind.

But not anymore.

Oswald’s lips find his in the dark, and Ed’s gaze is made whole by his ungodly touch.

“Thank you,” he praises, worships the taste of him.

“You’re mine now,” Oswald whispers back. “Always.”

Ed smiles - sees the word curve out like a winding path before him.

“Yes. _Always_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment/kudos, it will be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Or, if you would really like to, feel free to send me an ask or a message on tumblr at: [zebrashavestripes](https://zebrashavestripes.tumblr.com)


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